Their voices faded, and I knew they were moving away. I let my breath out in a great whoosh. Things were going much too fast for me. I was concentrating on finishing school with good grades, so that I could go to medical school someday and become a doctor. Now it seemed that my parents were already talking about my marriage!
And yet I couldn’t help feeling a spurt of happiness at the thought. My brothers were following the old ways in having their marriages arranged by match-makers, and they would eventually marry girls they had never seen before or had only met briefly. I would be different. I would marry someone I knew and admired, someone I found exciting. I wanted to run around the courtyard and dance with joy.
If only I had someone I could talk to! I had no sisters, which Mother thought was a tremendously lucky thing. My parents wouldn’t have to spend a lot of money marrying us off. But I was very lonely sometimes. I had few friends in school, since most of the girls in my class considered me to be noisy and unladylike. At times like these I really missed Tao Ailin, my only true friend.
She had sent me a couple of letters from America. One of them was about housework, of all things.
Dear Yanyan,
I’ve been working so hard that I don’t even have time to feel lonely in this strange new country. Besides taking care of the two children, I have to help Mrs.Warner with housework and cooking. Imagine me, cooking! The first time I boiled rice, I put in so much water that it turned out as soup. Then I tried to sweep the floor, but I didn’t realize that I had to gather the dirt and put it into something called a dustpan.
But I’m learning. I actually enjoy cooking!
Your friend, Ailin
I wrote back immediately.
Dear Ailin,
The most exciting thing that happened to me after seeing you off was our adventure with some hoodlums who attacked us in a Shanghai alley. My brother and his friend managed to fight them off. I think they even enjoyed the encounter. I certainly did!
Your friend,Yanyan
I didn’t write to Ailin about Liang Baoshu because I wasn’t sure about what to say. In another one of her letters, Ailin talked about Chinatown, an area in San Francisco that had many Chinese residents and shops. I was so startled that I wrote back immediately.
Dear Ailin,
Do you mean to say that there are parts of San Francisco under Chinese control, like the areas of Shanghai that are under British, French, and Japanese control?
Yanyan
Dear Yanyan,
No, no! Chinatown is not under Chinese control. It’s called that because so many people of Chinese descent live there. I have a friend in Chinatown I often visit.
Yours, Ailin
This was the first time I learned about Ailin’s friend in San Francisco. I felt a touch of jealousy. Her letters became less frequent, and I began to wonder if it was because she was spending so much time with her new friend. How could she have forgotten me so easily?
I finally learned the truth from Miss Gilbertson. In my English class the next day, I asked her if she had heard from Ailin or her employers. The Warners had planned to stay in America for a year and then return to their missionary work in China. Now that the year was almost up, I was looking forward to Ailin’s returning home with them. The teacher looked at me silently for a moment. “I had a letter from the Warners,” she said finally. “They write that Ailin is not coming back with them but is staying on in America. She’s getting married to a man in San Francisco!”
The news left me stunned. “Who—who is the man she’s marrying?” I asked when I found my voice again.
“A Chinese man she met on the ship going over. The Warners say that he’s quite a decent person. Apparently he’s opening a restaurant in San Francisco, and Ailin is going to help him run it.”
So that was the friend in Chinatown Ailin had been talking about! For a moment I felt a sense of betrayal. When Ailin and I were in school together, we had talked about what we planned to do after graduation. I was going to be a doctor, and Ailin a teacher. Neither of us had plans to get married, and we were going to support ourselves with our earnings.
Then I remembered that I had no right to condemn Ailin. After all, I had been thinking about marriage myself, to Liang Baoshu. And in Ailin’s case, becoming a teacher was no longer an option.
Still, I couldn’t picture Ailin helping to run a restaurant. “Does her family know?” I asked Miss Gilbertson.
The teacher shook her head and sighed. “I don’t think Ailin has been communicating with them.”
I went home in a daze. I knew that Ailin’s future had been profoundly changed by her refusal to have her feet bound and having her engagement broken. But I had never expected her life to take such a drastic turn. It was hard enough working as a nanny and helping out with some housework. Running a restaurant with her future husband sounded like backbreaking work.
Learning that Ailin was getting married made me think more seriously about my future with Liang Baoshu. What if he didn’t like me as much as I thought he did? Not that it would make a real difference if his parents and mine were determined on the match.
But what about my ambition to become a doctor? Could a married woman work outside the home? The women teachers at the MacIntosh School, such as Miss Gilbertson and Miss Scott, were single. I had not met a married woman doctor, either. Ailin could no longer choose to train as a teacher, but I still had a choice.
As graduation time approached, I had to think more and more about my future. Several of my classmates at the MacIntosh School announced that they were getting married as soon as they graduated. A number of others said that they were getting engaged, with the wedding date still in the future. Nobody asked me about my marriage plans. I didn’t have any close friends that I could talk to about personal things. Besides, I had already declared publicly that I wasn’t going to get married, but planned to support myself as a doctor.
I graduated with top honors in all the science courses, but did less well in literature and calligraphy. My writing teacher told me I was too impatient and too impulsive to acquire a fine hand in brush writing. Surprisingly, I got good grades in English, which had never been one of my strong subjects.
Father asked me where I wanted to study. First I had to take premed courses, that is, subjects I had to know before I could be admitted to a medical school.
“How about one of the universities?” I asked. I remembered my brothers discussing this new type of academy. “Do they accept girls?”
“Some do,” said Father. “With your grades in the sciences, I think you should be able to get in.” Then he frowned. “Most of the universities are in Beijing, but things are too unsettled up there in the north. I don’t like the idea of your attending school there.”
It was not just the north that was unsettled. Even though our country had been a republic for ten years, we could not count on security. Here in Nanjing things were quieter, but violent outbreaks were not unknown.
At dinner that night, the unsettled condition of the country was the principal topic of conversation once more. “If only we could have the good old days again,” sighed Second Brother, “when there was law and order.”
“What good old days?” I demanded. “You mean the time of your hero, Confucius? He lived during a period of endless civil wars!”
“I just want a strong hand to put down all these disorders,” protested Second Brother.
“Well, a strong hand did unite the country and put down disorders,” Father said, and smiled.
“You mean Qin Shihuang, don’t you?” I said. I turned and grinned at Second Brother. “It’s true that he united the country and became the first emperor, but he was also the one who burned all those books and buried scholars alive.”
Liang Baoshu was dining with us again, and Father turned to him. “What do you think? Is there someone strong enough who could unite China once again?”
“Since Yuan Shikai died,” said Liang Baoshu, “a strong man hasn’t appeared o
n the scene.”
After the end of the Manchu dynasty, Yuan Shikai, a military man, became a virtual dictator and nearly succeeded in making himself emperor. Although he had died five years ago, his name still cast a shadow. Would there be another Yuan Shikai eventually?
“It’s a pity that Sun Yat-sen can’t remain as president,” said Father. “I hear his health isn’t too good.”
Father was a great admirer of Sun Yat-sen, sometimes called the Father of the Republic and the man chiefly credited with bringing about the revolution ten years ago.
“The trouble with a republic is that there is no good way to determine succession,” murmured Liang Baoshu. “That means there will always be a period of disorder when the president steps down.”
“Then the alternative is a monarchy,” said Eldest Brother, “where you have a king automatically succeeded by his eldest son.”
“Well, Britain has a monarchy, and the country seems stable enough,” admitted Father. “But what if the successor is an idiot or a madman? Didn’t King George the Third go mad?”
The conversation turned toward Britain, and Father began to tell stories about some of his experiences there. He described how, during a state dinner, he picked up his finger bowl and drank the water that was intended for rinsing his hands. I had heard the story before, because he told it often. Sometimes I suspected that he still smarted over the incident but thought that by telling the story over and over again, he could relieve the sting. I wondered what it felt like to live in a country where, at any moment, you could commit an embarrassing error in public.
When Liang Baoshu left that night, I still didn’t know what he felt was the right form of government for China. A week later, I found out.
It was summer, and we spent a lot of time sitting outdoors after dinner. To repel mosquitoes, we would light an incense coil made of pressed chrysanthemums. Years later, the smell of this coil would instantly bring back memories of what happened that summer evening.
Even in our courtyard, which was near the center of our family compound, we heard shouts coming down our street. “Another riot?” said Father. “We haven’t had one lately. I thought things were settling down at last.”
Mother fanned herself and sighed. “When will these riots ever end? At least it’s not as bad here as in the north.”
Suddenly some shots rang out. I immediately thought of the shot I had heard in the Shanghai alley. That one had gone off at close quarters and left me deafened, whereas these sounded like the distant pops of firecrackers. Then some more shots went off, and they were closer. We also heard the sound of running feet.
Father got up. “I’d better tell Lao Feng to keep the front gate closed and not let anyone in.”
Lao Feng was our gatekeeper, and had been working for our family since Grandfather’s time. He was getting old, but Father didn’t have the heart to tell him it was time to retire.
Eldest Brother emerged from his room and came over to us. “What’s happening? I heard shots.”
Father came back with some information. “I’ve been asking Lao Feng whether he heard anything. He said he asked the gatekeeper at the Li residence across the street. He told Lao Feng that the shots were fired by a troop of soldiers. It seems they were trying to arrest somebody.”
The voices and the footsteps died away. It seemed that the chase had moved to another part of the city. Eldest Brother returned to his study. Mother got up from her stool and yawned. “This heat makes me tired. I think I’ll go to bed a little earlier tonight.”
I got up, too. I wasn’t sleepy and there was still plenty of daylight left, but the mosquitoes were getting fierce and I decided to get under the mosquito net in my room. Just as I approached my door, I heard a whisper behind me. “Young Mistress, somebody wants to see you.”
I turned around and saw that it was Lumei, one of our maids. “He doesn’t want anyone else to know,” she said. “Can you follow me?”
With my heart pounding, I followed the maid, walking as quietly as I could. We passed through two courtyards and arrived at a clump of miniature wax plum trees beside our fishpond. There was someone sitting on the ground, leaning against one of our ornamental rocks.
It was Liang Baoshu, and he was bleeding from one shoulder.
CHAPTER 4
The gunshots. The running feet. Of course. “Were you the one the police were chasing?” I asked.
He tried to smile. “Yes. I leaped over your wall. That just about finished my reserves of energy, I’m afraid.”
I looked around. There was nobody else in sight, except Lumei the maid. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said earnestly. I could tell that to her this seemed like an exciting adventure, with Liang Baoshu as the hero. Did she see me as the heroine—or herself? For a moment I even felt a twinge of jealousy.
Then I shook myself impatiently. This was no time for romantic mooning. “How badly hurt are you?” I asked, trying to sound calm.
“One of the bullets hit me in the shoulder,” replied Liang Baoshu. After a moment he managed another smile. “You want to be a doctor. This may be your chance to practice.”
I took a deep breath. “I’d better take a look.”
“It seems that I’ll be your first patient, Yanyan,” he said.
What I noticed more than anything else was that he was addressing me by my first name—my nickname, in fact. In the last few minutes, our relationship had entered a new stage.
“Can you sit up a little, Baoshu?” I said, using his first name. “I have to look at your back to see whether the bullet passed through your shoulder or . . .” I stopped and swallowed.
“Or whether it’s still inside?” he finished the sentence. With the help of the maid, he managed to sit up. From the sweat on his forehead, I could see how much the effort cost him. I unbuttoned his cloth jacket and saw the ugly hole where the bullet had gone in. Then I looked at his back.
There was no exit hole.
“I’ll have to dig the bullet out,” I said. I was proud of the fact that my voice wobbled only a little.
I had no time to lose, for I had to act while there was still enough light. “Get me a kitchen knife with the sharpest point you can find,” I said to Lumei. “And also a bottle of our strongest wujiapi.”
It had been five years since one of our maids had cut her hand and Father had poured the strong liquor over the wound. I had since learned that the effect of the alcohol in the liquor was to kill germs and prevent the wound from being infected. Already I had used the liquor many times to wipe the area around a wound. This time I would also have to use it to clean the kitchen knife.
Lumei hesitated only a moment before running off to obey my orders. I knew that by adopting a firm tone, I gave the impression that I knew what I was doing.
The maid returned with a truly wicked-looking knife and a small clay bottle of the liquor. Suddenly I realized that I had never handled a kitchen knife before. Well, at least I knew which was the working end: the one with the sharp point.
I poured some liquor over the knife and wiped it dry. “This is going to hurt a bit, Baoshu,” I said.
“I know it will,” he replied. That was the last thing he said for quite a while.
Later, what I remembered most about that probing of the wound was the sweat—or perhaps tears— streaming down my face. I had to keep wiping my eyes, and since my hands were covered with blood, I managed to smear my face.
Baoshu did not cry out. The noise would attract attention. But I could feel his tension as he tried to keep quiet. Suddenly he relaxed.
“Is he dead?” hissed Lumei, who was helping to hold Baoshu steady.
“No, I think he’s fainted,” I gasped. “This is going to make things easier.”
It did. For one thing, with Baoshu’s muscles relaxed, I could probe more deeply. At long last, my knife hit something hard and metallic. I clenched my teeth and dug. After what seemed like years, I managed to pry the bullet out.
Looking at the small, bloody
lump in my hands, I felt great sobs of relief welling up in my throat. But I couldn’t afford to cry; I wasn’t finished. I took the strips of cloth Lumei had brought, and the two of us did our best to bind up the wound.
During the process, Baoshu came around and began to groan. I had to put my hand over his mouth. He stared at me for a second and then nodded, to show that he understood.
It was fully dark by the time we finished. “We can’t leave you out here,” I said to Baoshu. “Can you walk?”
“I shall have to,” he said grimly.
“We’ll try to move you to that storage shed just behind the plum trees,” I told him.
The maid and I succeeded in getting Baoshu to his feet. We were almost carrying him by the time we reached the storage shed. The place was bare and dusty, but it provided shelter, at least, and it was far enough away from the sleeping rooms of the family and servants so that the noises we made wouldn’t attract attention. We moved some boxes and cleared a space on the floor.
“Not exactly the Great Southern Hotel, is it?” I said.
“I’ve slept in worse places,” said Baoshu, and dropped to the floor.
The maid and I looked down at him. “We’d better let him rest,” I said finally. I had no idea what to do next for someone with a hole in his shoulder. Did one administer a hot drink? Elevate his feet?
“I’ll get some quilts and bedding,” said Lumei. She hesitated for a moment. “Young Mistress, you’d better wash yourself. There’s blood all over your face and hands.”
For the first time I realized that my hands were not only sticky but reeked of blood. A wave of nausea swept over me. I took a deep breath and steadied myself. If I wanted to be a doctor, I might have to face this kind of trial again and again.
“All right,” I told the maid. “Find some covers for him, and I’ll try to come back later in the night.”
An Ocean Apart, a World Away Page 4